


No Need to Say Goodbye

by hp80



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse, X-Men: Days of Future Past
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Daddy Issues, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Father, Gen, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, POV Pietro Maximoff, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter is spiraling, Peter is stubborn af, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Protective Erik, Sick Peter, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hp80/pseuds/hp80
Summary: Even if it meant sealing his fate, that’s just how it would have to be. Don’t get him wrong, Peter didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He really really wanted to live. There was so much he hadn’t done, and, he might be older than the other X-Men (sans Raven), but he wasn’t that old. Most days anymore, he felt terribly young.





	No Need to Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I don't know much about cancer or how it is treated. All I know is that it sucks, and it's not fair for anyone or their families to have to go through it, so please realize that certain depictions of the disease and its effects may not be entirely accurate. Also, sorry to anyone who is waiting for me to update my other X-Men fic. This just wouldn't get out of my head.
> 
> The title comes from the Regina Spektor song "The Call," which is a great song, and always reminds me of the Chronicles of Narnia.
> 
> Two final notes, I do not own the X-Men, and this has not been beta'd.

It happened on a Wednesday. He was running, and then he wasn't.

At first he chalked it up to low blood sugar. He had skipped his second afternoon snack that day, so he fainted. It made sense. He needed a lot, and I mean _a lot _of calories just to sustain himself, so skipping out on any meal, snack, or whatever was bound to screw with him.

But then, it happened again, on a day when he happened hadn't skipped any of his regularly scheduled meals. And then again, on a day when he ate more than usual. The fourth time it happened (only the second that his mom knew about), his mom dragged him to the doctor.

At the time, he wished she wouldn't have. Wished they could have all stayed blissfully ignorant of what was destroying him from the inside out for just a little longer.

For his sake, she kept it together at the doctor's office, on the car ride home, and all through dinner, but he heard her crying in the kitchen late that night after he was supposed to be in bed.

But the next day, his mom was back to her determined self. They were going to do whatever it took to beat it. She refused to entertain any other outcome.

But for a while, it didn't seem like they would. He got treatment, racking up bills that he knew his mom would never repay that _he _would never repay, even if he somehow managed to finish high school.

That was another problem. As he grew sicker, he started missing more and more days of school, which would still have been a problem if he'd done what his mom asked right away, but less so than it turned out to be because of the way he actually handled it.

He was supposed to give his principal a letter his mom had written explaining the situation because between her two jobs, chauffeuring him to doctor's appointments, and making sure Mila still had a childhood, it became nearly impossible for her to find a time to call the school or come in for a meeting.

But he hadn't done as she asked.

He'd read the letter he was supposed to hand over, and in it his mom had requested for everything to be kept confidential, but he knew it would get out, one way or another eventually everyone would know. So he didn't pass it along. He just kept it in his locker shoved in the back behind his textbooks and forgotten notes.

It was better for everyone to think he was just skipping school because he couldn't be bothered with it, than to have them know and look at him with pity. But it didn't stay a secret forever. Eventually, the school sent a letter home about his "frequent unexcused absences" and missed detentions, and his mom—detective that she was—figured it all out rather quickly.

She did go to see his principal in person then, no longer trusting her son to deliver the news. She hadn't trusted him with very much back then—she didn't trust that he was eating enough, or sleeping enough, or taking every fucking pill he was supposed to at the right time. But he accepted that—her worry, her concern, her overbearingness. He knew it was because she loved him, but from everyone else, it was hard to take because, as he predicted, word got around after his mom's meeting with the principal.

And suddenly, he was no longer the cool rebellious delinquent; he was the sick kid that probably wouldn't make it to graduation . . .

But somehow he did, though it wasn't clear that he would make it much longer after that, which was why he hadn't applied to college. He'd just stayed home. Not content, but accepting of the fact that he'd never move out of his childhood home, or more specifically, his mom's basement.

It went on like that for a while.

Until it didn't.

* * *

Who knows why, but one day, the meds and everything else just started working. And he, well he started getting better.

The day he managed to stay awake from the time he woke up at a semi-normal hour until a regular bedtime, his mother cried again, this time, tears of joy.

And the first time he ran—_truly _ran—again, _he _was the one who cried.

And so, eventually, life got back to normal, well, as normal as life could be for a mutant teen.

He didn't move out, he'd felt that he'd missed the college train when he hadn't gone right away, but contrary to what he might have had the other X-Men believe, he wasn't a complete loser. He _had _gotten a job, _multiple_ jobs actually, his main one being a process server.

Yea, it hadn't been what he'd dreamt of becoming as a kid, but he got to run places, find people, and pretty much all he had to do was hand people things. And sometimes, he could get a day's work done in an hour or less, which meant he had time to do other things, like deliver pizzas or newspapers—though that was what he did everyday first thing in the morning anyway—or take his little sister to all her activities, so that his mom didn't have to.

But beyond that, he didn't get out much. He didn't mean for it to be that way, it just sort of happened. Maybe it was because, after everything, he didn't want to leave his family. How could he, when he was the reason his mom was drowning and debt and his sister never got enough attention. And oh yea, _he _was the reason his family was harassed by complete strangers because having a mutant in the family didn't exactly make you very popular with most people. And even if he wasn't always spotted for what he was, basically the whole reason people even had a chance of calling him out on it was because he had to go and break his dead-beat dad out of prison. And what reason did have for doing that? No reason really. No more than that it had seemed fun at the time, and back then, what did he have to lose really?

But like the cancer, the topic of his father was something he tried to forget. And for a good while, that's what he did.

That is, until his dad showed up on the news again for murdering a bunch of police officers . . . only after they'd murdered his family, of course—the one that Peter was not a part of, and never would be.

So the world nearly ended, Peter almost got himself killed with no help from any disease, he was too much of a coward tell Erik he's his dad, and yada yada yada, Erik left and Peter was left fatherless again, not that that had really ever changed.

But it was fine. Things were good for a bit. Peter finally moved out of his mom's basement, and he had a purpose and friends besides.

He should've known it wouldn't last.

* * *

It happened again, but this time on a Sunday. And this time, he didn't need to wait for it to happen three more times to know what was wrong, and he didn't, but he _did _go to a doctor, trying to cling to a tiny bit of hope that he was wrong.

He wasn't.

The doctor—a different one than the first time around—confirmed what he already knew: it was back.

The doctor urged him to tell his parents—sorry, Pete just had the one dude—or at least a friend, anyone that could help him through . . . _this._

Part of Peter wanted to do what the man asked, but he attributed the feeling to the fatherly vibe the guy had going on. He looked like one of those guys on all the family sitcoms that worked from 9 to 5 but still somehow managed to play catch with their kid every day after work. The kind of father Peter always wished for but never had.

But though Peter had daddy issues galore, it wasn't enough to get him to follow the doctor's wishes.

He could tell the doctor thought he was making a mistake and maybe wanted to call Peter's mom up himself, but this time, Peter was an adult. He didn't _have _to tell anyone, so that was the end of it. Besides, he was pretty sure if the doc had seen what his diagnosis had done to his mom the first time, he wouldn't be quite so insistent that Peter tell her.

As a turned out, a few weeks later, it didn't matter that Peter hadn't told his mom because a combination of slick roads from a torrential downpour, a drunk driver, and bad luck, meant he would never be able to.

The X-Men came to the funeral, which he appreciated. His step-father, _ex_-step father, however, did not.

It didn't matter that much though, Rick (the ex-step dad), did not stick around long after the service. He only stayed long enough to inform him that he, along with his little half-sister (the living one), were moving to Portland.

Peter wanted to be sad about that news, but he wasn't. His sister and him hadn't been close for years. As soon as she was old enough to comprehend that Peter wasn't like most older brothers, they drifted apart. Their mom was the only thing that tied them together, and now . . . she was gone.

But he hugged her anyway, and told her to call him whenever she wanted to. She promised she would.

They both knew she wouldn't.

* * *

A few more weeks went by, and eventually people at the mansion stopped walking on tiptoes around him. And Peter was once again grateful that no one knew his secret, well no one knew the one not-related to Erik. Peter felt like half the school knew that one. Really, it was just Raven, Ororo—because Raven couldn't keep her mouth shut—Jean because of her unintentional eavesdropping (not on Pietro, his mind was too fast), the Professor for the same reason, and Hank because one of the aforementioned individuals—cough, _Raven_, cough—had told him too. But still, that was a few more people than Peter would have liked.

But for better or worse, he wasn't surrounded by idiots, so after a few too many nosebleeds and fainting episodes, Peter woke up from the latter to a very serious—more serious than normal—looking Hank scrutinizing him closely and to Charles and Raven doing the same, though from a bit farther away.

After some avid denials that Peter thought for sure were Oscar worthy, eventually they pried it out of him. And when that happened, he could see the shift in their eyes. The pity. The concern.

Everything Peter did not want.

They—as the Prof would probably put it—had words. Terms like reckless, rash, irresponsible (there were a lot of 'R' words used) were tossed around. And, despite Peter swearing on his life—har har har—that he was getting the best treatment he could, which was true (Xavier's gig came with amazing insurance), things changed after that.

Everyone agreed—or more like Hank, Raven, and Charles agreed and Peter just went along with it because what else was he going to do?—that Peter was to cut back on things. Fewer training sessions, less running and more resting, a closely monitored diet, and someone would drive him to and from appointments, just to name a few changes.

Oh, and the Professor took care of all his medical bills, the ones he'd incurred even with the stellar insurance coverage, so that was nice.

Jean found out shortly after that because, well—see previous about her being a telepath.

The rest of the X-Men didn't catch on immediately. They knew something was up with him, but Peter liked to think he was pretty good with coming up with excuses and putting on a devil-may-care attitude that kept them off the scent for a while.

But he couldn't keep it up forever.

* * *

On the day it became clear that there would be no more hiding it, Peter woke up and stumbled to the bathroom to do his business and whatever per usual, his bones aching the way they seemed to do constantly anymore. He'd just finished washing his hands when things took a turn for the worse.

Did you know, that some people don't lose their hair when they get chemo.?

Peter was not one of those people.

It came out in a clump as he ran his hand through hair, meaning to simply push it back out of his eyes as he had so many times before.

He stared at it for a good minute. He hadn't lost his hair the first time. It had never gotten to that point, but now . . . it had.

It was just one more sign that he was fighting a losing battle, but it was one sign too many.

He didn't know how it happened, but the next thing he was aware of was Jean's arms around him as he bawled into his hands kneeling on the bathroom floor.

He didn't know if she had sensed his distress, even if she couldn't read his mind, or if she had simply heard his sobs through the walls. He hoped it was the former but figured, with his luck, that it was the latter.

It was stupid really. He had come to accept it, maybe even think it suited him, but he'd never really liked his hair. But now, here he was crying over the loss of it.

It was maddening. He'd held it together for _so long_ already, but one little clump of hair and that was what did him in.

They didn't talk about the incident afterward, and Peter couldn't even remember if either of them said anything as he wept in her arms, but the next day he asked Jean to shave his head.

She agreed with zero hesitation.

He asked her to tell them—the X-Men—too. And she agreed to that was well. It wouldn't be a secret much longer anyway, even if Peter somehow managed to convince everyone that his new hairstyle was simply a fashion statement. He was only going to training once a week now, and sometimes not even staying for the whole session.

Discovery was inevitable, so he wanted to get ahead of it—control the one thing he could.

He knew he should be the one to do it—to tell all of them—but he couldn't, and Jean, good friend that she was, didn't even suggest that it would be better coming from him.

So when he finally left his room and showed up in the danger room for training the morning Jean did the deed, he felt their stares before he saw them. He stared silently back, daring anyone to comment.

They didn't. Not about the hair or his . . . condition.

Instead, they said all the right things, and joked around like it was any other day, because as much as Peter ranted on them—yes even Scott—they were all good people. They were his friends, and they knew that what he needed from them was for everything to remain the same.

But it wasn't.

And despite their best efforts, he could see it there again, in their eyes. The look his mom gave him the first time around. The look the Prof, Hank, and Raven had been given him for weeks.

So yea, things had changed.

And things continued to spiral downhill from there.

* * *

Training sessions quickly became a nonstarter.

He started to lose weight he couldn't afford to, and getting out of bed became harder and harder each day.

He was running out of options—that was the only kind of running he did these days.

His doctor confirmed as much. His best hope was a bone marrow transplant, but the waiting list was longer than Peter's detention record, and thanks to the first time around, he already knew his little sister wasn't a match. This was a problem, because apparently being a mutant and something about being _Peter_ meant that even if he were high up on the waiting list—which he wasn't—the chance of there being a matching donor was slim to none.

Doctor McManus—Peter figured he should do the curtesy of referring to the man by name at this point, they had spent a lot of time together in recent months—asked him if he had any other living relatives.

Peter said he didn't.

It didn't even feel like a lie.

* * *

It was only during the car ride home that Peter realized, despite all his talk about respecting privacy, that Charles had been eavesdropping from the waiting room, at least on the Doc's thoughts.

Apparently, the Prof had been aware of this particular issue for a while now, and he—well technically Hank—had been testing anyone of age at the school who wanted to volunteer to see if they were a match for him.

Peter teared up as Charles said that every single X-Men, including Raven and Hank, had volunteered, but no one had been a match. Charles himself wasn't either.

The knowledge hung in the air between them for a good long while before the Professor pulled the car to the side of the road just so he could look Peter in the eyes for the next bit, gently reminding him that there was one more person that might be a match.

At that well-meaning comment, Peter lost it.

He screamed. He yelled, all while the Professor stared calmly back at him.

Peter knew he sounded unhinged, but at some point he managed to get his emotions under control and then his message to the Professor was clear—under _no_ circumstances was he to contact Erik. No way. No hell. Not happening.

Peter made him swear it. Swear on his students' lives, swear on Raven's life, swear on _Peter's_ life.

Charles did swear, and it looked like the promise cost him years off his own life, but Peter wouldn't back down.

There was _no way_, Peter was having anyone drop the bomb on Erik that he had a kid—a grown ass (well sort of grown ass) son—who oh, by the way was dying and probably would be dead whether the man found out about him or not.

He wouldn't do it. Peter couldn't go through that, and he wouldn't make Erik go through it either. He wouldn't make Erik watch another one of his kids die, even if he never really knew him.

That would be cruel.

And—and what if they asked, and Erik didn't come? Or maybe worse, he came, but not because Peter was his son and he wanted to get to know him. What if he only came because Peter was dying and Erik felt some obligation to try to do something about it because of guilt or shit like that?

No. Telling Erik was not an option for a number of reasons.

Even if it meant sealing his fate, that's just how it would have to be. Don't get him wrong, Peter didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He really _really_ wanted to live. There was so much he hadn't done, and, he might be older than the other X-Men (sans Raven), but he wasn't _that _old. Most days anymore, he felt terribly young.

But if he was going to die, at least he could do so with the knowledge that he'd done _some _memorable things in life—he broke into the Pentagon, saved a bunch of kids from an explosion, helped stop a centuries old mutant from destroying the world, and had eaten more Twinkies than probably any other person living or dead.

Peter wondered if they'd put one of those things on his gravestone. He honestly didn't know which one would be the most epic.

And if he died . . . he'd hopefully get to see his mom again and perhaps meet his sisters for the first time—Nina, Anya, his twin that didn't live long enough to get a name. It seemed like his family should be getting their own wing in heaven pretty soon at this rate. _Wing_—ha. Angel humour.

He didn't talk to the Professor for an entire day after that, but he could tell from the looks they exchanged with each other that Hank, Raven, and Charles _had_ discussed it. So he made Hank and Raven make the same promise too.

But after that, no one brought it up again, and life went on.

Or, more like, it trudged pathetically along as far as Peter was concerned.

* * *

A couple weeks later, Peter made what was probably a terrible decision, he borrowed—_stole_—the Professor's car. Well, one of them, it wasn't like the man would miss it _that _much with as many as he had. And he was going to give it back. He just needed it for a little bit.

In a different time, Peter would've just run into town, but that wasn't an option anymore. He could barely make it from one end of the mansion to the other without feeling like he was going to keel over, which probably wasn't too far off the mark actually. So he probably—_definitely_—shouldn't have even been driving, but he needed to escape, just for a little while. Escape the stares and concerned questions like 'how are you feeling?,' 'do you need anything?,' 'do you want to lie down?,' 'will you try to eat something?,' among many others.

It was driving him bonkers.

And he wanted to feel some speed again, even if it couldn't compare to what he was once capable of. Driving was still leagues better than his sluggish walks—stumbles—through the school.

Somehow he managed to make it to his destination—the public library.

It might have seemed out of character for him, maybe he should have used his freedom to hit up a bar, but even though alcohol never used to really have an effect on him, now with as little as he was managing to eat compared to what he needed combined with the meds he was on, going for a drink really might be a death sentence. Plus, he didn't want some place loud and crowded full of people that would stare at him, no longer because of his hair combined with his odd complexion that typically screamed 'mutant!' to most, but because he was starting to look like a corpse that had crawled out of its grave.

He wanted to go someplace quiet, where he could curl up in a corner unnoticed, listen to some music, maybe read a book if he felt up to it, and forget about everything for a moment.

So that's what he did.

He shuffled through the library entrance and past the front desk with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his beanie and his head down, moving at a pace that would have made him cringe not so long ago, but that now he was pretty proud of.

He headed to the back of the library, where he spotted a corner that was tucked away from the main stacks and held a bean bag chair that had definitely seen better days but that would serve his needs perfectly.

He grabbed a book off a shelf at random and stumbled over to the chair, flopping into it in such a way that shot pain all through his body, but pretty much any movement did that nowadays, so it didn't faze him much.

Peter turned the book over in his hand, it was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Peter laughed—well it came out as more of a wet raspy cough—because it seemed fitting. Maybe he was reading too much into it or mis-remembering the story from when he read it as a child, but wasn't the book—the entire series really—about death and loss and leaving behind one world for another, sometimes (and especially) when you didn't want to? So yea, it seemed fitting that he had picked it up because, well, he was dying, and best-case scenario he would wake up in a different world instead of just ceasing to exist altogether. But either way, he didn't want to go.

Not yet.

Not now.

* * *

Peter must have fallen asleep at some point—from what he remembered, he barely made it past the first chapter—because the next thing he knew someone was tapping him very _very _gently on the shoulder.

"Hon? Hon, are you alright?"

Peter blinked his eyes open lazily to find an older librarian looking down on him, and a younger woman—probably in her teens or early twenties—that Peter recognized as another employee, having seen her shelving books on his way to wherever it was he'd ended up. They stared at him, the younger one looking like she was afraid he was going to die right in front of them. He imagined that she had probably been the one to find him. Maybe she'd even tried to wake him up already, and when he hadn't, she'd freaked out and ran for help.

They continued to stare, and he realized they were still waiting for an answer.

"I'm—I'm good." He managed though he could tell by the looks on their faces that he didn't do a very good job at sounding convincing. He didn't try to get up. He didn't know if he could. Despite taking a nap, he still felt like he'd ran a marathon. Well, several marathons, since a marathon when he was at his best wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest.

"We're closing." The librarian said gently. "Are you with someone, or do you need to call for a ride? Maybe your parents?"

Peter cringed. He knew how he must look, with the beanie on his head, his deathly pale skin, and his skeletal appearance—fragile, sick, much younger than his actual age. They probably thought he was some sick kid who'd managed to sneak out from under the watchful eye of a parent, rather than an adult probably nearly twice the age they had pinned him at. But they weren't too far off base really. He wasn't a kid, and he didn't have parents, but no doubt everyone back at the school was freaking out about him being gone.

"No—it's fine—I drove myself." Said Peter, and even though he really didn't feel like moving, he attempted it to get to his feet.

It didn't go so great.

He managed to stand, but then nearly faceplanted onto the two women. Fortunately, the younger one caught him, though her eyes grew comically wide, and when it was clear he wasn't going to be able to stand on his own, she lowered him back into the bean bag chair.

"Hon, you're not driving yourself anywhere. Why don't you give me a number, and I'll call whoever you'd like me to. It doesn't have to be your parents. But I need to call someone; otherwise, I think I'm going to have to call an ambulance." Said the older woman, looking down at him sympathetically.

"Don't—don't—_please_ don't do that. I have a number you can call. It's—it's—" Peter racked his brain. He knew the number for the school. He _knew _it. Why couldn't his fucking brain cooperate and remember it for him? Why did thinking hurt so much? Shouldn't that be the _one thing_ that didn't hurt?

"It's okay, sweetheart. I won't call an ambulance. I'll call my husband, and we'll take you to the home or to the hospital or to wherever it is you're supposed to be. I'm sure someone is missing you right now, so how does that sound?"

"That's alright ma’am. He's our little brother. We'll get him home." Said a familiar voice behind her. Peter turned his head to follow it, and there was Hank and Raven—looking normal—coming up from behind the two women.

"We have been missing him," Raven added, sounding disappointed rather than concerned, but he could tell she had been worried, even if she—out of everyone—always did the best at hiding it.

The women looked relieved, and like she believed them but she turned back to Peter anyway just to be sure. "Hon, are these your siblings?"

Peter nodded because their story was easier than explaining the truth—that they had just come to collect their dumbass roommate/co-worker/(friend?) who apparently had no self-preservation skills whatsoever.

Peter didn't remember much after that, and what he did remember was embarrassing.

Raven exchanged quick words with the two library workers, assuring them they'd keep a better eye on him. Hank had to carry him bridal style to their car, and Raven had to drive back the car Peter had borrowed back to the school because he was too messed up to do it himself.

In the end, he didn't get much of a lecture for sneaking off though. It was clear to everyone that, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to do it again.

* * *

Shortly after the library incident, Peter's life pretty much became confined to his bedroom and bathroom. They didn't force him into the medical wing in the basement, and for that, Peter was grateful because he didn't want to wake up every day—_if_ he woke up at all—and see white windowless walls. No, he'd rather look out his window over the grounds and watch the young mutants enjoy a life that he no longer could.

But his room still essentially became a hospital room, equipped with too many machines and drugs. He was constantly hooked up to an IV now, but even so, he wasn't getting enough nutrients.

His weight dropped some more, and though no one said it, they all knew the end was coming.

He probably should have called his little sister and let her know what was going on. But at this point, he had waited too long, and he didn't want her to see him like this anyway, even if her dad let her come, which he knew he wouldn't. Besides, she already had a new (and normal) life across the country without Peter. Him being dead wouldn't change that. It would just make her feel guilty for leaving him behind.

Besides, although he would never forget her or his mom, he had a new family now too.

And they were the best, somehow managing—just by their mere presence—to make it feel a little bit less like he was dying.

* * *

He started waking up less and less. And one time when he did, he had enough clarity to realize he wasn't in his bedroom anymore. They had finally moved him to the medical wing, but sadly, at this point, he no longer cared.

And one day, when he closed his eyes, he was almost sure that he wouldn't open them again.

* * *

But he did.

And this time, there was someone new sitting beside him.

He was reading the newspaper and looked uncomfortable despite the fact that he was sitting in an armchair that had been brought down to the medical wing to make it feel more homey for Peter and his frequent visitors.

It took him a moment to realize that Peter was awake.

When he did, the newspaper fell from his hands.

They stared at each other for what must have only been a few seconds—maybe a minute tops—but for what felt like hours.

"You're awake." Said Erik, then, after a pause. "How are you feeling?"

"Like death." Peter replied deadpanned.

Great. Here he was talking to his father for what was maybe the third time in his life, and he still couldn't help but be a smart aleck.

"I'll go get Hank." Said Erik already making to rise out of his chair.

"Wait. I'm okay for a bit." Peter said quickly.

Erik settled back down but didn't look convinced.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at his father again. "They weren't supposed to call you. I asked them not to. Charles, Raven, Hank—they _promised_ that they wouldn't."

Erik stared at Peter for a moment before answering, by the look on his face, this was something Erik already knew. "I'm aware. And they didn't break their promise, though I suspect they were about to . . . Miss Grey was the one who contacted me. But, promise or no promise, I'm glad she did, because if she hadn't . . . you'd be dead."

"So you were a match then?" asked Peter, studying the older man for signs that it was true, though Peter supposed if there were any, they wouldn't be noticeably visible.

Erik didn't really look any different from the last time Peter had seen him. Maybe more tired looking, and he'd grown the beard out again, but other than that, he looked the same, whereas Peter . . . most certainly did not.

"Yes."

"Doesn't mean I still won't die." Replied Peter. He didn't mean to be so blunt, but it was true. His chances were better now, but they still weren't great.

Erik pursed his lips. "Maybe. But, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to be here for whatever may come."

"Would you? If I were you, I don't think I'd want to be." Said Peter toying at a loose piece of thread on the sheet that covered him. "I mean, this is all pretty awkward. Like more awkward than that time I broke you out of prison. And you didn't ask for . . . any of this."

"Neither did you, Peter." Came his father's steady reply.

No, he guess he hadn't, but unlike Erik, he'd had time to adjust to it all—the cancer and finding out his dad was Magneto. Erik had just been thrust into it all unaware. Unsuspecting.

"_Still._" Said Peter, looking down at the sheet again.

They sat in silence for a moment before Erik spoke up again.

"My daughter, she used to do that too, when she was nervous."

Peter glanced up to see what Erik was referring to, and the other man nodded his head to where Peter was pulling at the loose thread.

_Which one?_ Peter wanted to ask but didn't. It didn't matter, really. Either way, he was reminding Erik of one of the kids he had actually wanted. The kids he'd probably rather have back instead of the broken one he was left with.

Peter stopped his fidgeting and rested his hands at his side, the movement pulled on his IV, sending a slight twinge through his arm.

"They told me about what happened to your mother." Erik continued moving on. "I'm sorry. I loved her . . . once."

"It's fine." Said Peter automatically, even though it wasn't. "It's not like I lost her when I was a kid. I got a lot of good years with her, ya know?"

_More than you got with your mother_, if Charles' depiction of Erik's childhood was accurate, which it probably was.

"That doesn't matter. No matter our age, it's never easy to lose the ones we love." And with that statement, his father looked about 100 years old. Maybe losing someone hurt no matter your age, and maybe, when you lost someone, it aged you too. And, from what little he knew, Erik had lost a lot of people.

"You don't have to be here." Peter tried again, unaware that he had started fiddling with the sheet once more. "Like I said, I might—I still might not make it. And parents shouldn't have to bury their kids. I don't mean—I mean you're not really—I'm not asking you to be my—"

"Peter." Said Erik cutting him off. "I _want _to be here. No matter what happens. I want to be—to be something to you at least . . . no matter how much time I've missed . . . or—or how much time I have with you, I'd like to be your parent. Your _father_ . . . If you'd let me."

Peter felt his eyes begin to sting, but this time, when he looked up and met Erik's gaze he grinned, a true genuine smile, one he hadn't used in a long time.

"Yea, I think I would like that."

**Author's Note:**

> In the words of Ariana Grande, after this, I "ain't got no tears left to cry."


End file.
